


That Time Door Forgot Tom at the Airport and Basil Barked A Lot

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [7]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dog - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Humor, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Angst (Pamela mostly), POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Male Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Plotting, friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What?” I ask, not knowing what Door is trying to tell me. The words slowly filter into my brain and I realize what she just said. “Why are you picking up Tom?”</p><p>“He’s here to see Pamela! He got in at one in the morning or something Broadway whacky and I FORGOT TO PICK HIM UP AT THE AIRPORT.”</p><p>I look at my watch, attempting to figure out what time it is in Texas.<br/>I fail and give up. </p><p>Wait, what does Broadway whacky mean? </p><p>“I FORGOT TOM HIDDLESTON!”</p><p>“And you are calling Benedict Cumberbatch because…?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Time Door Forgot Tom at the Airport and Basil Barked A Lot

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

He had not wanted her to leave. He wished for the evening to never end, even though he desperately wanted to go to sleep. However, Chronos was not his friend and plotted against him to end the evening within a blink of an eye. 

Before Tom knew it, Luke whisked Pamela off and Tom was left on his own holding two empty champaign flutes— one that was marked faintly with red lipstick. 

Tom hated Luke for a moment for taking Pamela away. 

Then he realized it was not Luke’s fault, but really his own. 

And where had Pamela gotten red lipstick from? She didn’t seem like the sort to own makeup.

“Where’d your girl go?”

Tom looked up from the empty glasses he’d been staring into and found Samuel L. Jackson standing next to him, looking politely interested at the blank space that Pamela had occupied the past few hours. He looked to Tom and eyed the empty glasses. 

“Did she crawl in there and die?” 

“She had to catch a plane to San Antonio,” Tom explained, snagging a waiter with a tray to rid himself of the empty glasses.  

Now his hands were empty. He flexed his left hand, trying not to think what that hand had been holding moments ago.

What was wrong with him?

“Love sucks,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “Where’d you meet her? She looked a bit out of her element. Evans mentioned she’s in the Air Force.” 

“I met her in London,” Tom replied, sticking his hand into his trouser pocket. “She was on holiday before starting a new assignment.”

“Cool. What does she do?”

“She’s a pilot,” Tom automatically answered. “She flies C-17s.” 

Sam looked gobsmacked. Tom politely carried on a conversation with Sam, his mind a million miles away with a woman in a white dress with red painted lips and almost too perfect blonde highlighted hair. 

She had been seriously beautiful tonight. 

He desperately wanted to see her again. 

Right now in fact. 

Or at least as soon as possible. 

A plan began to form in the back of his mind.

“Oh, no. I know that look,” Sam said, chuckling. He rocked back and forth on his heels. 

Tom grinned a very familiar grin. Sam quirked an eyebrow before bursting out into loud laugher. 

* * *

“Cam, do I have anything pressing to do this weekend?” Tom asked, holding his phone out in front of him the next morning while standing in front of the window in his hotel room.

It was smoggy in Los Angeles.  

“Huh?” Cameron said, sounding confused. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Did you hear me?”

“I did hear you. You’ve got several meeting with your agent— those the times are in the calendar in your phone. A few roles on the table for the first two meetings, ironing out the deets for filming that movie with the chick from _True Blood_ for later in the week. You’re going to the Clippers game next Monday, then the _Iron Man 3_ premiere with Chris and Robert later that week— times are in your phone. Luke will also have them,” Cameron reported, flipping pages in the book that sat on his desk with Tom’s schedule. Cameron was old fashion in that he kept an actual, physical book with Tom’s professional life contained within. “Then there’s nothing till the Oliver Awards on the twenty-eighth. Why?” 

“Pencil in San Antonio this weekend and the twenty-fifth till twenty-seventh. ”

“You need to be there?” Cameron asked, sounding confused. “Whatever for?”

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no idea how to explain the romanic within was screaming at him for allowing Luke to drag Pamela off, put her on a plane and let her escape without a proper goodbye. 

Two lines from the chorus to “Back to Black” by Amy Winehouse rolled through Tom’s head on repeat since last night. 

Tom ought to let it go. (Who needed more than words to say good-bye?)

Logically, he knew he should simply move on. (Tom wanted more than words.) 

There was something _there._ He knew it, his heart knew it, his head knew it— it seemed all of Tom was on board. 

Why had he just stood there when Luke popped up and said, “Time to go!” and not said more than, “Good-bye?” 

Pamela hadn’t even managed to say anything. She smiled, nodded, handed Tom her champaign flute and turned her attention to Luke. Luke had taken her by the shoulder and they left Tom standing there holding two glasses.

So, Tom had said goodbye with words. Pamela had used none.

Still, it had been all wrong. Very wrong.

Tom wanted more and he was sure with the shy smiles, blushes, sparkling eyes, and how natural Pamela had taken his hand as the evening wore on and winding their fingers together, she felt the same as he did. 

All signs pointed to the same conclusions.

“Tom” Cameron prompted, sending Tom back to the reality. “Uh, want me to hunt down her address or something?”

Tom didn’t respond right away.

“This is about the girl right? The one you needed an extra ticket to LA for?”

“No. Er, I’ll figure that out. I’ll talk to you when I get back to London. I’m sure the PA Luke arranged will be fine for the time I’m here. Sorry to bother you.” 

“Uh, sure. Traitor,” Cameron laughed. “We know you hate it when you leave me behind.”

Tom almost always left Cameron behind when he left London. It seemed pretentious to travel with an entourage. Tom was humble, so he left his PA in London and hardly ever contacted the guy except when he was in need of major help organizing himself— which happened more often than not since _Thor_.

He’d only called now to double check his calendar for the coming weekend— even though Cameron almost always kept the calendar on his phone up to date. Somehow. Tom had never bothered to figure out how Cameron did it. 

“Tom, I suggest you go to sleep. You’ve been running on empty for the past week with that UNICEF challenge you took part in and now you’re in LA. Jet lag is bound to make you a bit…off,” Cameron kindly said. 

Tom knew he wasn’t off. He was thinking quite rationally.

“Tom.”

“Cameron.”

“Take a really long time to think about this.”

“Goodbye, Cameron.”

“Bye.” 

Tom hung up the phone and sat down on the bed, eyeing the object that now rested within his hand. 

It was a powerful object. It could call people. It had the internet. It could find people. 

Tom didn’t have Pamela’s phone number. Nor did he have her last name. Thus, his phone was slightly useless unless he wished to tweet at her. (She hadn’t updated her Twitter feed in over a year and she’d tweeted five times total since she got the account three years ago.) 

Tom set the phone on bedside table and threw his face into his now empty hands. 

The words San Antonio were scorched into the blackness behind his eyes. The city name stood out in red and throbbed for him to pay attention. Images of Pamela in that blasted white dress, with her ruby lips, and those freakishly straight highlights shining danced in his mind. 

“That’s it,” Tom said, pulling his head up and grabbing his laptop. He booted it up (after plugging it in, as it had died a painful battery death at some point) and opened up his internet browser. He began looking at flights when he was distracted by Skype. 

Why was he logged into Skype?

Tom used it, of course, but he didn’t leave logged in. He hit the window and gazed in confusion at the names that appeared. 

He knew none of them.

Well, other than Door— if her last name was Abercrombie. 

Many contained the name Fitch. 

Tom had never learned  Pamela’s last name, but… if he had to hazard a guess Pamela failed to log herself out after he’d let her use the laptop to contact Door. And her last name might be Fitch. Or she simply knew an abnormal amount of people with that last name. 

Frowning a little, he picked up his mobile and texted Ben. He waited a few minutes before setting the phone back down next to him when he didn’t receive and instant answer. 

He moved the curser up to the corner to close out Skype and go back to what he’d been planning to do: buy a ticket to San Antonio. Before he had a chance to log out, the program made that annoying noise it made when someone messaged it. 

**Door Abercrombie: Why are you on here, but not answering your phone!?**

Tom stared at the message and frowned. His fingers hovered above the keyboard.

**Door Abercrombie: You did make it here, didn’t you? I didn’t see you on the show last night, or in any of the photos that surfaced this morning. Did you really go or was this an elaborate, evil plot?**

**Door Abercormbie: I’m not sure what it’d be an evil plot for…you’re the one who freaked out, not me.**

**Door Abercormbie: Uh, Pamela???????**

Tom settled his fingers over the keys and began to type.

**Pamela Fitch: This isn’t Pamela. She failed to log out when she used my laptop. I apologize.**

There was a long pause before the next message.

**Door Abercormbie: OMG.**

**Door Abercrombie: Is this Tom Hiddleston?!?!?!?**

**Pamela Fitch: Yes.**

**Door Abercombie: *passes out***

Tom frowned.

**Door Abercrombie: Do you know if she even got on her flight last night? She was supposed to call my husband to go get her, but she never called.**

Tom turned to the internet browser and looked up Pamela’s flight. 

**Pamela Fitch: It landed on time. Connection was made on time. She ought to have been there by nine am.**

**Door Abercrombie: That’s what I thought…It’s almost noon.**

Tom glanced at the clock. It was ten in the morning in LA. 

**Door Abercormbie: Well, I guess I’ll call her cell a few more times. It’s still going straight to voicemail. Are you sure she got on the plane?**

**Pamela Fitch: Well, I did not personally take her to the airport. My publicist saw to her last night, I believe. I could call him. I’m sure he saw to it she arrived at the airport.**

There was a long pause before the next message popped in. 

**Door Abercrombie: No, no need. She just called. She didn’t bother getting on the flight from Dallas. She’s still in Dallas, waiting for her dad.**

Tom frowned.

**Pamela Fitch: Why?**

**Door Abercrombie: He’s driving her car down from where she left it in CO Springs. I guess he was somewhere in Texas when she called before she boarded the plane, so they decided he’d just swing by and get her in Dallas, even though it makes NO sense. Doesn’t add much extra time, just miles on her car.**

**Door Abercrombie: Her phone died.**

**Door Abercrombie: She’s on her way to SA now. With her dad. In her car. So she has his phone.**

**Door Abercormbie: Sooooo we found her!**

**Pamela Fitch: That’s good. I’m glad.**

Tom suddenly realized his heart was pounding and he’d been sitting with a lot of tension in his body, as he felt his muscles loosen suddenly.  

He clicked back to the browser and booked himself a ticket to San Antonio for the next weekend, then informed Door of his plans. 

He was pretty sure by the silence he was met with, he’d given the poor dear a heart attack. 

* * *

Three hours later, Tom received a text. It jolted him out of the light sleep he’d fallen into whilst watching television. Blindly grabbing for his mobile, he read:

_Of course their last names are Abercrombie & Fitch._

And against his will, a random line from a song he couldn’t remember the title of, who it was by or why he knew it, leapt into his mind. Groaning, he flung the mobile back down.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

I have a day off. Well, kind of. Caitlin Moran is supposed to stop by to do an interview. I suggested my parent’s cottage in the country, as I needed to get out of the city, out of London and away from everything. So, weekend in the country with my parents. 

As Door said to me when I originally told her about my feelings of stress, “Sometimes you need your mother. Trust me.”

I need my mum. 

My parents ground me, remind me of what’s important, and that I’m still Ben.

Like going to the store without people realizing who I am, they make me feel normal.

Though, what is normal when you’ve got two actors for parents and you’re doing an interview on your day off? 

“Sweetie, when is that woman supposed to be here? I thought she’d be here before lunch,” Mum comments, bustling around me. She picks up my forgotten tea cup, slaps my arm and then heads into the kitchen. 

“I think she’s next door,” I say, moving across the lounge to look out the front window. There is a woman trying to break into Kate Moss’ cottage (mansion) across the way. “I think she’s eventually try our humble abode.”

“Oh, Ben.”

My phone begins to blare from my pocket.

“Hush that thing,” Mum chides, poking her head out of the kitchen. 

I yank out the phone and see it’s Door. 

Why is Door calling me?

“OHMYGOD!” she shouts the moment I answer. I hold the phone away from my ear and Mum stares at me before snorting and wandering back into the kitchen. “I FORGOT TO PICK UP TOM HIDDLESTON!”

I stare blankly out the window as the woman shouts at the house across the way. She thinks she’s being clever by channeling John when he shouted through the letterbox at Sherlock in “Blind Banker.” 

I think I might enjoy this interview. 

If she ever heads over here. 

“What?” I ask, not knowing what Door is trying to tell me. The words slowly filter into my brain and I realize what she just said. “Why are you picking up Tom?”

“He’s here to see Pamela! He got in at one in the morning or something Broadway whacky and I FORGOT TO PICK HIM UP AT THE AIRPORT.”

I look at my watch, attempting to figure out what time it is in Texas.

I fail and give up. 

Wait, what does _Broadway whacky_ mean? 

“I FORGOT TOM HIDDLESTON!”

“And you are calling Benedict Cumberbatch because…?”

“I don’t know. Jason is asleep. He grunted at me when I realized I’d forgotten to pick Hiddleston up. I can’t tell Pamela. It’s supposed to be a secret. Shit. Damn it. I suck at this. OHMYGOD I HATE THIS TOWN.”

Door lets out a few Door created curses before she calms down. 

“Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did I agree to this?”

“That, my dear, I do not know. However, I believe Ms Moran has figured out that the Cumberbatches do not live in Kate Moss’ house and is heading this way. I must go. Interview to do and all.”

“Ben?”

There is a tone in her voice that makes my heart twist up. She sounds so tired and alone. 

“Yes, Door?”

“Tell me I’m not wrong to want this to work,” she says quietly. 

I hear the engine turn off and silence rages over the line. I believe she might be talking about Tom and Pamela, yet she could be speaking about so many other things. Yet, I know what she needs and I do know why she called me of all people.

She needs a friend. She needs reassurance. I also happen to be wide awake. 

And it’s partly my fault she’s so stressed out— between leaving Pamela alone with Tom and telling Mark about the penguins, it is all my fault she’s about to lose her mind in a world of thread, orange leather and dog fur. 

“You’re not wrong to want it to work.”

Door sighs. “Thanks, Ben. Now, go be your amusing self and show the world you don’t walk around with a stick up your butt.”

She hangs up before I can analyze what she means by that. Other than it seems part of the world has this misconception I’m posh simply because I went to Harrow. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I just had the longest week known to man.

And I had a HUGE ass secret to keep. (Not to mention about a hundred purses to complete. Then I had another hundred-katrillion orders by the end of the week and I think I might need my mommy.)

Oh, and I SUCK at secrets. Luckily, Jason was uber busy being a pilot, while Pamela was busy trying to sort out her life upon reaching Randolph. From experience, those first few days of being at a new base, even if you’re just TDY, are a pain in the butt. (Don’t ask me what TDY stands for, I’ve got no idea.)

I told my mom all about Tom coming to SA to surprise Pamela. My mother went all gushy on me and waffled about how romantic it was, and how romance was dying and at least one man out there was still romantic.

Then she asked me why I hadn’t found a romantic. (Poor Jason. My mother doesn’t find the odd things he does romantic, but I do. I mean, yeah, you might not want a huge ass photo of a building for a first anniversary present, but I did. And yeah, you might not realize why the hell I am crying when he handed me a potted plant after I got my appendix out, but I do. And that’s what counts.)

(The building was the inn we got married in and the plant was because I had told him between Hiddleston ramblings I hated guys who gave girls flowers. They just wither and die— hence the potted plant. That my mother killed. But, that’s another story for another day.) 

So, yeah, I failed at keeping Tom’s arrival a secret. I told my mom. I told Jason. I just told Benedict on my way to the airport just now and I told the guy who sells me leather at the store I’ve taken to buying my leather from. (He had no idea why it was a big deal, even after I said Loki. Clearly, that guy’s whole life is leather.) I’m pretty sure I’m missing some people I might have told too. (I did a lot of shopping this last week, hence lots of check out people to tell.) 

I am late to pick up Tom Hiddleston. And by late, I mean I’m over two hours late and it’s almost four in the morning. Now, his flight was late, BUT not two hours late…only, like an hour late. 

Which means, I’m still SUPER late for an very important date. 

Late with a capital “L” that rhymes with “M” and stands for moron.

Or something like that. I’m in trouble with a capital “T” and that rhymes with “P” and stands for…oh, I’m too tired for _Music Man_ references. 

I am standing in the airport trying to find for Tom Hiddleston. I shouldn’t be trying to figure out how to be witty in my own head. 

I am STANDING in the SAN ANTONIO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT looking for TOM HIDDLESTON.

Did I die?

I think I might have.

Jason didn’t even budge when I shouted I had to get Tom Hiddleston and I was late. He simply hummed and rolled over. (Sometimes I hate Jason for his mad sleeping skills. Sleeping is his all time favorite thing. Sometimes (don’t tell him I said this) I think he likes sleeping better than me. Oh, and if he could, he’d be a professional napper.)

Where the frack is Tom Hilddleston?

Oh, no. What if he got tired of waiting and left? He’d texted my phone a few times since he arrived (which was how I found out I was late…the phone finally woke me up). Wouldn’t he have texted if he decided I sucked at life and left? 

He said in his last text: OK. 

So, he must still be here.

Somewhere.

It’s not even that big of an airport. It’s no O’Hare. Or Denver. Or Seattle. Or Atlanta. Or Heathrow. Or any of the other airports I’ve ever been in with the exception of Anchorage, Charlotte, and St. Louis. Those were dinky. 

_Where in the world is Thomas William Hiddleston?_

Okay. Stop singing in your head, Door. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Tom tapped his foot, feeling a little annoyance creep into his being. He should have known Door would be late— she was Ben’s friend. (Though, what did that say about Tom?)

(It was too early or late to be introspective.) 

Tom took another gulp from the coffee he’d been nursing since the Starbucks cart had opened up. The flight had taken off an hour late, so he’d gotten in an hour later, but Door was nowhere to be found. He had texted her, called her, but she had not answered till about a half hour ago when she sent him a combination of letters (another made up word maybe) and said she was on her way. 

Tom was about to give up and call a cab when he spotted a head of out of control ginger mess hurrying through the baggage claim wearing a bright green hooded sweatshirt that had Abercrombie & Fitch printed across the chest. The woman paused, looked around, curls flying everywhere.

How did she see through that mass of hair? 

The woman turned and Tom took a moment to study her closer. 

Unlike her friend, Door did not scream American loudly. Even dressed in the LOUD labeled top, she moved differently from Pamela. She held herself differently. Her hair was also un-styled— no highlights, not straightened, no fuss whatsoever. Tom had a feeling this wasn’t just due to rolling out of bed and coming to get him either. 

Tom slowly rose from the bench he’d been seated on since he’d arrived at the baggage claim, tossed the empty coffee cup away and sauntered over to the girl. 

“Schemee,” she muttered loud enough for him to hear as he approached her from behind.

Tom tried his best not to laugh. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

“There you are.”

I jump about ten feet into the air at the sound of his voice.

“I got here as soon as I could operate,” I snap before I can stop myself. “It wasn’t my idea for you to arrive at too early to be awake in the morning.”

Oh god. 

I just snapped at Tom Hiddleston. 

In public.

Need a hole to crawl into to die within. 

STAT.

Instead of being pissed at me (as he has EVERY right to be), Tom Hiddleston smiles at me. 

SMILES AT ME.

(He must be…alien or seriously the nicest person on the planet.) 

“Oh, dear. Aren’t we cranky in the mornings,” Tom muses. He cracks his neck, still smiling and asks ever so politely, “Shall we be on our way?”

“Oh. Yeah. Leaving. Yes.”

I turn and walk back the way I came. 

“What am I supposed to do with you? I doubt she’s awake. Can you check into a hotel at this hour?” I ask as we walk through the almost empty airport. A few people stare as we make our way along— likely thinking _Is that Tom Hiddleston? What the frack is he doing here? And why is he with that woman who has never heard of a hairbrush before?_

“Do with me, darling?”

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“I would love to be able to sleep for a bit. Unfortunately, my hotel reservation is for tonight,” he says. “I know it was the most inconvenient time for me to arrive, but I figured you’d be used to it. And you did insist on picking me up.”

He gives me a disarming smile, hitching the overnight bag up on his shoulder. 

(How the hell is he looking so cool and collected after an overnight flight and sitting around the airport? Did he groom himself in the bathroom? He doesn’t seem like the type, but he looks— well, I look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket and he just breezed out of a magazine spread (oh, how I hate thee, let me count thee ways). Am I forever doomed to meet famous people when I’m not at my best? At least I lack the grass stains and the barking menace to society…)

“Huh?”

“If memory serves me correctly…” Tom trails off a moment, appearing thoughtful. “You spent a lot of time whilst living in Anchorage, Alaska going to the airport in the middle of the night.”

My jaw drops clear to the ground and I trip over my stupid feet. 

(Seriously, they are stupid. I have “small” feet according to my mother, but sometimes I think they are much bigger than they appear. Like I have a foot of unseen foot.) 

(I wear a size eight and half, which from what I can tell is average, as there are never any shoes left in that size on the sale rack. Also, not small. Size six is small. Unless you’re Martha Judoc and have size ten feet, I guess.)

“You read my blog?” I breathe out, staring at him with huge eyes. 

I must look like an idiot.

But, then, I am an idiot.

Just like my blasted dog.

Gimme a tall glass of water and an extra dose of moron, please!

“Of course, darling,” he drawls, shaking his head at me. He turns his gaze away from me as we near the doors to the parking garage. “I wasn’t aware I’d have to wait almost two hours for you to come get me. I did catch a cat nap, though. Rather comfortable waiting lounge.”

“I’m sorry. I think I kept thinking the phone was part of a dream,” I apologize in a rush. “It was bizarre. I was trying to go get you and Jason kept telling me I couldn’t. And he kept refusing to see _Star Trek_ with me and _Iron Man 3_. And his excuse was something to do with you. You’re not even in those movies and yet it made total sense to me!”

Tom appears confused. As he ought to be. My dreams never make sense. I once had a dream where the pastor of my church assimilated the entire congregation. And it wasn’t assimilate like they do on _Star Trek: TNG_ , but this weird thing where everyone walked around saying, “La, la, la, la” after the guy did something that looked strangely like the Macerana in front of them.  

“Jason thought I was mental,” I go on.

“Aren’t you mental?”

I press my lips together and glare at him. 

Tom gives me a knowing look. 

“Fine. I am totally tetched,” I agree, pushing the door open and letting the morning air hit me. 

Actually, it’s kind of cold (for Texas). Hence, the sweatshirt I’m sporting this lovely morning. (I sometimes put my fleece North Face jacket on to take the dog out. It’s forty some mornings when I wake up to take Basil the Lovely Idiot outside. I feel shame at this, as if it was forty in Anchorage, I’d be never wear the North Face jacket. I’d wear a blazer, not a fleece. Hell, last spring I broke out the shorts (with tights) when it hit thirty-six.)

“Oh, it’s not all that horrid,” Tom comments as we walk out into the parking garage. “I was expecting pressing humidity, death by smog, and feeling like I was walking through pea soup.”

“Nope. We’re having a cold spell,” I grump. “No smog, no pea soup, and very little humidity for those of us who do not have to battle with fascist hair.”

“Your hair is fascist?”

“Well, yeah. It explains why we do not get along,” I explained. “It’s a long story that involves this strange board game my friends and I found at the coffee shop on campus where I was pope so I did what I wanted.”

“Like Loki,” Tom muses.

“Yeah, before Loki did what he wanted, though,” I point out. “Loki wasn’t even conceptualized in that formate when I went to college.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, Mr Hiddleston, don’t you know its impolite to ask a lady her age?” I say, pretending to be scandalized. 

“Well, Lady Door, I apologize for insulting your integrity,” Tom purrs, looking throughly sorry for his indigression.

Seriously, what is with this guy? How he is real?

“I graduated from college in 2006. Do some math and you might figure out my age,” I say with a smile. “It took Ben a few weeks to take the time to figure it out, then about fifteen minutes to actually do the math correctly. I knew there was a reason I loved him.”

(Math and I are not friends.) 

The ugly, white, oversized object I must drive comes into sight as the pair of us chuckle of Ben’s lack of math skills. 

“Here we are. The monstrosity known as a 4Runner, not to be confused with the Road Runner.”

I glower at the SUV.

“It is rather…leviathan,” Tom allows. “And it doesn’t go fast?”

I grin, remembering Pamela— during one of her rants— mentioned Tom liked words. The more obscure the better. 

(I’d noticed his use of some not usually used words while we were talking. We could have a word battle!)

“No. It’s got this whacky transmission that doesn’t know how to shift right. Likely due to the fact it’s leviathan, brobdingnagain, pythonic, and kind of pachydermatous.”

I glance up to find Tom smiling down at me— that well known grin directed at me. 

ME!

DOOR JUDOC-ABERCROMBIE!

He puts one of those super long arms around my shoulders, dragging me into his side ungracefully (I am the ungraceful one, he moves like a gazelle). 

Do not fangirl. Do not fangirl.

Do not start to write odes to Tom Hiddleston. 

OMG. I’ve liked this guy for over ten years, I’ve followed and watched EVERYTHING he’s in that I can get my mitts on. 

I am allowed to have a small fangirl freak out in my head.

(Freaks out.) 

“Door, I think we’re going to be great friends,” he smirks before letting me go. He takes a few steps towards the SUV, pausing before I unlock it. “Alaska has boring number plates.”

(Freak out ends. Back to reality. Tom Hiddleston is a gifted actor, but at the moment, he’s just Tom. Like Ben is just Ben, not Benedict Cumberbatch, the man who looks like an alien but it does not matter because he’s got TALENT oozing out of his wide spaced eyes. And he kind sounds like dark chocolate— if that makes sense. Just go with it.) 

I laugh, the noise echoing around the parking garage. I feel proud. I was able to get a grip a lot faster here than I had been when I first met Ben— then again, I KNEW I was meeting Tom Hiddleston today and had a whole week to get used to the fact. 

Oh, I’m so proud of myself. (Pats self on back.) 

“That was my thought too when they handed us those things,” I say, sounding totally myself. “But, they aren’t as ugly at the Illinois plates. Have you seen the gradient on those things? Even I could have done a better job and all I have is a semester’s worth of training at graphic design from high school. And, the people of Illinois VOTED for those ugly things.”

“I cannot say I know what they look like,” Tom admits, opening the passenger side back door to put his bag on the floor. 

“Seen the Batman movies?” I ask. “The new ones with Bale?”

Tom waits until we were both in the stupid 4Runner before telling me he had seen all three Bale Batman movies.

“Those are Illinois plates on the cars for Gotham,” I tell him. “They made them that way because they filmed the first two movies in Chicago and it was just easier to make all the plates look the same— that way they didn’t have to worry about cars that were on the streets when they filmed. All the plates look the same and you cannot read the stupid things from far away— just see the colors. Seriously, what was Illinois thinking?”

“You seem rather passionate about Illinois number plates.”

“I’m from Illinois. I belonged to them for the twenty-six years of my life till I gave them up for Alaska. I belong to Alaska now, heart and soul,” I say, starting up the car.

It roars to life— vociferous and vapid. 

 OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Pamela’s eyes flew open. The blank, white ceiling of the hotel bedroom greeted her. The blackout curtains allowed a little grey light of the morning to seep into the room, but for the most part the room was draped in darkness. Rolling to her side, she reached for her cell phone. Upon hitting a random button (not that there are many to choose from on an iPhone), the phone politely informed her it was six thirty in the morning. 

Pamela groaned, falling backward.

Letting the phone fall to the ground, she ran her hands over her face a few times before making a choice.

She’d go running. It was early, it’d be cool and no one would be around. Having been in town for a few days, Pamela had taken the time to map out the area she was staying for best early morning running routes. Jason has told her that once she started flying, early morning runs wouldn’t work— but Pamela preferred exercise in the morning rather than in the evening.

“Blarg,” Pamela announced, rolling out of the bed. 

She threw the blankets back and got out of bed, padding over to the walk-in closet. Flipping the light on, she entered the walk-in closet that was HUGE. She had hardly enough to fill half the closet let alone the whole thing. She fingered the fancy bag her new (overpriced) dress now lived its life (and would likely remain till the end of time). Catching herself, she quickly pushed it deeper into the closet and used her winter coat to hide it. She turned heel and headed back into the bedroom and to the dresser, where her running things lived.

Why had she even gone into the damn closet?

Using the light from the closet, Pamela crossed to the entertainment center that also served as a dresser for the bedroom. Yanking the drawer open that contained her running clothing, she hunted around for what she wanted. 

She liked the hotel the Abercrombies had suggested. It felt more like her apartment back in Seattle than a hotel room. It had a full kitchen. With pots, pans and dishes! The whole joint was better than the “long term” accommodations she’d been trapped in so far in her life in the Air Force. 

Granted, she wasn’t getting really paid enough per diem for the room, but a little out of pocket for what she currently had was fine with her. She had internet, cable, and house cleaning. 

What more could she ask for? 

 _Tom_ , her mind supplied.

“Oh, shut up, you idiot,” Pamela muttered, cramming her running top over her head. “It’s not like he’s going to drop everything to come see you, you silly girl. Fairytales don’t happen. That’s why they are called fairytales. Oh, god. I’m talking to myself.”

She realized besides talking to herself out loud, she’d not removed her tank top she’d slept in before putting on her running top. She banged her head against the closed doors of the entertainment center above the dresser. 

* * *

After her run, she dragged her tired limbs up the concrete stairs slowly. She stuck her key card in and waited a moment for the green light. Once she heard the door unlock and the light flicked green, Pamela pushed the door open and entered the cool air conditioned main living area. While it was “cold” at the moment, Pamela felt quite differently.  

The locals knew nothing of cold. 

Cold was standing around an outdoor set in London for three hours in March.

Pamela’s heart stuttered as she remembered London. 

London reminded her of Tom.

Tom Thoughts instigated all sorts of strange things.

Things that usually made her want to read a manual (Dash-1) on the T-6 till her brain was numb.

She picked it up and sat down to read the oversized binder.  

She would not think of London, Tom, or anything connected with either of those two things.

It was done.

Over.

Finite.

(Insert more words that meant _end_ that would make Door proud.)

The only noise in the hotel room was the flicking of the pages as Pamela read the huge manual she’d been handed a few days prior. She might not be thrilled with this assignment, it might not be the C-17 and she might be going backwards (re:flying the plane she’d learned to fly in after flying her career plane), but damn if she wasn’t going to be the best instructor pilot that came out of this stupid program.

* * *

Pamela read the Dash-1 till her back ached and she remembered she was still in her sweaty running clothing and the time was inching towards eleven. Door had said she and Jason would drop by around noon to get her to take her to that ranch that dude in Jason’s original pilot training class parents owned. The Neverland Ranch? The Enchanted Springs Ranch? Enchanted-land Ranch? Never Springs Ranch? Spring of the Never Enchanted Ranch? 

Pamela had no idea. It was somewhere around here and she was going there today. She hoped the guy was one of the more mature people— he likely was if Jason was still speaking to him. Jason had no time for idiots (except his dog). 

Pamela slammed the binder shut and headed for the bathroom.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

The dog hated Tom. It was the only explanation for the almost constantly barking since Tom had walked into the Abercrombie residence. Tom was sure there wasn’t a deaf ear within a ten mile radiance.

He was amazed no one had broken down the door of the flat to demand silence on this wonderful Saturday morning. 

BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

“BASIL!” roared Door, hauling the dog into the bedroom yet again. Tom heard a cage door shut and lock. 

The dog continued barking. 

“No more treats you!” Door declared. “We are NOT friends!” 

Tom had not moved since he’d arrived. The dog had come out to see what was going on and the barking had started— only stopping when the dog would be locked in her cage and would forget Tom was around. The moment something reminded the dog of Tom’s presence, the barking began.

“She did this when we had all Jason’s family down for graduation from pilot training,” Door had explained after it’d happened for what felt like the millionth time. “She has no short term or long term memory sometimes. Or she took a HUGE dose of moron before going to bed last night.”

“Or she hates him,” Jason had offered up. 

Tom had suggested someone drive him to the hotel he had had Cameron book him into nearby, but Door was too exhausted to drive, Jason had actually been asleep till about two hours ago (he slept through the barking) and now neither Abercrombie saw the point of hauling Tom to the hotel when they’d shortly be heading over to get Pamela from the hotel she was living at. 

Tom could use a nap. One that wasn’t punctuated by barking. 

“Do you wanna shower?” Door asked, slamming the bedroom door. The barking became muted. “We might have some spare towels. Did you happen to get any sleep earlier?”

“Of course,” Tom lied, smiling. 

The dog had escaped (somehow) and barked in his face whilst Door and Jason both slept during the wee hours of the morning. The dog only sort of stopped when Tom clamped a hand around her muzzle. 

She still barked. Or at least tried to. 

Tom could not honestly understand why Ben had LIKED the birdbrained dog. 

“So, shower?” Door asked, walking through another door. Tom listened as she opened and shut cabinets and came up out with a bath towel and wash cloth. She looked quite proud of herself. 

“Bless you,” Tom said, picking up his overnight bag. 

He went into the bathroom and the barking stopped.

“You are a really preposterous dog, you know that?” Tom heard Door inform the Barking Menace. “Seriously, you are cracked. What do you think he’s going to do to you? Give you a BATH?”

Tom drowned whatever else Door said to the dog by turning the shower on. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

“You do realize Tom Hiddleston is naked in your bathroom right now.”

“It’s our bathroom and, uh, I hadn’t really thought about that.”

“Well, he might not shower naked. Maybe he wears his boxers? Or briefs. Do you know what he wears?”

“NO! Why would I know that?”

“You’re his fan.”

“Of his WORK! Of his WORK! Do you care what kind of underwear Payton Manning wears?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

“I hate Payton Manning.”

“BLJRLSUISFSLKJDFSLDISOEJF.”

“Door, darling, that’s not a word.”

“Don’t you start with the _darlings_ , Jason James Abercrombie!”

“Oh, but you’re my darling, darling.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I think I’m going to leave you for Benedict Cumberbatch. Lemme just ring him now.”

“You can’t ring him.”

“I can too!”

“Does he answer to a bell?”

“Oh, you jerk, stop trying to be funny. You are not funny.”

“Tom Hiddleston is naked in the bathroom.”

I pick up a pillow and whack my annoying husband upside the head. 

Basil starts barking.

Oh, how I hate Basil Bea Dog, let me count the ways. 

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks y’all for reading, reviewing, and the kudos. This was planned as just a few one-shots that then took on a life of its own! So glad you’ve all enjoyed it! (So far.)


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